Unity
by Hemoptysis
Summary: A twist of fate reunites a world-weary survivor with his infected daughter, the first step of many on a cross-state journey towards a massive CEDA outpost and a rumored cure - that is, unless his daughter's Hunter mate and her "friends" can do anything to stop him. OC-centric fic, with Hunter/Huntress throughout. Rated T for language and gore.
1. Prologue: Escape

_Wow, long time no write, guys. My apologies. My writing muse is nowhere NEAR as… shall we say, "exuberant" as my artistic one, hahaha. (Well, I DID have a one-shot about halfway done around a month or two ago, but I kind of accidentally… deleted it, so... yeah, my bad there. Wasn't that great, anyway.)_

_But THIS new fanfic could actually be considered a "reworking" of the plot from the original accidentally-deleted one-shot. It started off as just a spontaneous passing idea, nothing special… but something about the concept kept drawing my mind back to it, and I knew I had to expand upon it before it got away from me. This'll be my first multi-chapter fanfic… ever! Will it turn out to be as good as it sounds in my head? Let's find out. Fingers crossed._

_- Hemoptysis_

_I of course do not own Left 4 Dead, the Infected, so on and so forth, you know the drill. I own only Thomas as a fan character. Credit will be given where credit is due as other people's fan characters begin to appear, as well…_

oOo

**Unity**

**Prologue: Escape**

"_SAFE ROOM!"_

_If there was anything Thomas Bates could be certain of in this world anymore, it was that there were no two words more beautiful-sounding and welcoming in existence._

_It was dark, terrifyingly so, the only sources of light the dirty bulb shining dimly above the safe room's door at the end of the long and narrow city street and the short beam cast by the small flashlight taped onto Brent's rifle, everything in between smothered in shadow, and they were running. The rain poured down upon the battered group of six, stinging their exposed arms and faces but that didn't matter, none of it mattered, they were blind to pain, focused solely on the single word that drummed itself repeatedly into their brains like a frenzied war cry only they could hear – run, RUN! Safe room's ahead! Don't stop, run run run run RUN!_

_The screaming reverberated all around them, echoing throughout the nearby alleyways – the screams of the horde, the Infected, alerted to the presence of possible fresh kills. They came at them from every side, materializing from seemingly nowhere, inhumanly fast, eyes that caught the minimal light and shone as hollow and predatory as those of sharks, completely stripped of all humanity by this devastating illness. Their existence defined now only by killing, feeding, killing again, and they clawed at them with clumsy fingers slick with blood and filth and rainwater that they beat away with the butts of their guns, never stopping, not even as they loosed flurries of bullets into the swarms of diseased bodies. Some fell; others just kept coming despite their wounds. They knew no fear, no agony, no sense of self-preservation, God almighty WHAT KEPT THEM GOING?_

_Thomas was ahead of the others, his massive surge of adrenaline the only thing keeping his tired body on its feet. His eyes barely left that reinforced, safety-promising door on the opposite end of the street, even as his fists collided with Infected's jaws and shoved them away to fall and be carelessly trampled by their cohorts. He allowed himself just the barest flicker of hope – they were nearly at the halfway point now, they had only to keep running, keep holding off the attacking horde, they couldn't let themselves be stopped, they couldn't even FALTER, slipping up was NOT an option here, because in a – dare he think it? – ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE situation slipping up even for the briefest second could mean CERTAIN DEATH…_

_He lifted his Submachine Gun and fired off another few rounds into the shrieking crowd of Infected, several more dropping into twitching, bleeding heaps out of sight. His hope was growing, if ever so slightly; the horde, it was lessening! This was it! If they kept this up they COULD make it to that safe room, they WOULD make it, they WOULD live, they WOULD they WOULD they WOULD, they just had to keep RUN-_

_An ear-splitting screech knifed through the sounds of the pouring rain and the wails of attacking and dying Infected, and then a second. A third. They tore Thomas right out of his racing thoughts and nearly caused his feet to slide out from beneath him in a puddle. It felt as though his stomach had just twisted itself into a thick knot, blood frozen in his veins, the rainwater on his skin suddenly cold as frost. Cold as death._

_But he still didn't stop running._

_Oh God oh God oh GOD PLEASE GOD NOT NOW IT CAN'T BE, OH NO PLEASE GOD PLEASE NO NONONONONO-_

_One of his friends, Phil, was shocked into stopping; he dropped his pistol, eyes wide with fear that his friends would never glimpse. "HUNTE-"_

_The warning shout dissolved into a terrified scream as something large and heavy leapt onto him from above, knocking him to the ground with a wet thud, and he didn't stop screaming until it became a choked gurgle seconds later and then it was silenced. Infected streaked past the other five survivors and into the darkness towards the spot, spurred onward by the noise and apparently undeterred by the sounds of deep, bestial snarling and ripping flesh, the scavengers…_

_Carter skidded to a halt, turning around, his expression horrified. "PHIL-!"_

_Thomas swore loudly, pausing for only the briefest moment to seize Carter by the shoulder and practically drag him along with him. "He's gone! You can't help him now! Worry about yourself, KEEP GOING!"_

_A distraught Carter obeyed that order, but he was unable to hide his quiet sobbing._

_Another piercing screech tore the air and now Thomas could make out someone, someTHING racing along the rooftops to the right of them, just barely visible in his peripheral vision, effortlessly matching their frantic pace. Tracking them. A dark, limber silhouette, leaping from building to building and back again, impossibly agile in such poor conditions, INHUMANLY agile. No, not just one, TWO, one following directly behind the first. The one in front turned its head and he could see two ember-bright eyes, fixed directly onto him - the prey._

_Yet another horrible screech sent a new surge of terror-driven energy into him, forcing renewed vigor into his legs and pushing his exhaustion aside. For now. He dared not turn his head to see but he knew there were more, there HAD to be. A pack. A WHOLE FUCKING PACK OF THEM. Too fast to shoot at, too powerful to take on PHYSICALLY. A sudden wave of crushing despair threatened to overwhelm him but he refused to let it get the upper hand, not yet. Their chances of reaching the safe room at all were slipping through their fingers like the raindrops themselves and they were powerless to stop it…_

_How cruel this game of chance could be._

_They must've gotten Brent next, because suddenly the little flashlight's beam went out and they were plunged into total blackness. They hadn't even heard him fall, or scream, but somehow, they knew it was over. Thomas dug his teeth into his lip and kept moving, dodging the swiping fists and gnashing teeth of the weaker Infected still giving chase. He no longer bothered to shoot at them. Not enough time, only time enough to shove them aside. They were BY FAR not the most dangerous things coming after them now..._

_No more than a few seconds later there came the sound of a painfully loud metallic crash against the concrete that made the surrounding Infected cry out in anticipation; for a moment Thomas thought that one must've tripped over a trash can in the thick darkness, until he heard the panicked shouts and gunshots that swiftly went quiet followed by an ugly spattering sound that he didn't want to imagine the likely cause of. A pang of nausea carved through his insides and he fought the intense urge to vomit, eyes welling up with furious tears…_

"_STEPHEN? BARRY?" he called out desperately to his friends. The only responses were the cries of the horde and the faint sounds of Carter's mixed panting and sobbing behind him. That was it. They were the only ones left now. He felt the creeping dread, sick and dizzy from exhaustion, he wanted to cry but he would not break, he COULD NOT, not when he still had his own reasons to fight on…_

_Almost there, that feeble light above the safe room door like the beacon of a lighthouse across a stormy sea. Thomas' lungs burned, his lank blond hair plastered to his face with a mixture of rainwater and sweat and bloody grime and what he suspected might've been tears; he wasn't entirely sure his legs would even carry him the rest of the way but still he gave it one last burst of strength, all that was left in him, running like the Devil himself was on his heels. In a way, he WAS._

_So CLOSE, only a little farther, a little farther and they'd be safe. Maybe there was still a chance, maybe they COULD outrun this pack, just a minute longer, oh please God please help us-_

_Carter's foot caught in a pothole and he fell sprawling into a shallow puddle, gasping with the pain of the impact and his fear. "THOMAS!"_

_Thomas' momentum carried him forward several feet, nearly losing his balance when Carter's alarmed shout halted him. He whirled back around, heart hammering in his chest. He knew he had to run, that stopping even for a SECOND like this left him vulnerable, but he couldn't just LEAVE his only remaining companion behind, could he…?_

_He bared his teeth and started back, shouting and swinging his gun at the advancing Infected that grabbed for him, scraping his skin with their broken, bloody nails, searching for handholds. One seized his arm and he punched it in the mouth, feeling several teeth break against his knuckles, cutting into them. He was too distracted to feel the pain. He had to get to Carter, had to help him before one of those… those THINGS got its chance…_

_He was only feet away. He dove forward, reaching out for Carter's outstretched hand…_

_His fingers had just barely brushed against the tips of his friend's when Carter was suddenly jerked backwards, being dragged across the ground on his belly; Thomas could make out a large shape on all fours, its teeth fastened securely in his ankle, growling and snarling viciously through the mouthful of flesh, bone…_

_The last he saw of him before he was lost to the shadows were his two wide, terrified eyes staring pleadingly into Thomas' own, fingernails scrabbling helplessly against the asphalt and screaming for his help though he knew there could be none for him now…_

_Bile rose in Thomas' throat and he choked it back down, turning and forcing his legs back into a run towards the safe room. He was alone now. There'd been six of them and in only a minute they'd been torn down to one. An angry howl rose above all others like a siren and he knew he was next…_

_He'd be DAMNED if he'd let that happen._

_He ran and ran and all that he knew was running and adrenaline, his body was reaching its breaking point but nothing else existed except for the slap of his boots against the wet pavement and the rush of blood in his eardrums from his thundering pulse. He gulped in lungfuls of the humid, corpse-scented air and powered through the burning cramp in his right side; he barely had the strength to duck down as he moved, hoping to whatever cruel God there was that the few remaining weaker Infected would help to conceal him…_

_Another howl, it was gaining on him…_

_The safe room was no more than twenty feet away, he could practically TASTE safety, oh God Carter if only he hadn't tripped, we BOTH could've made it, if only we hadn't been found by those-_

_HOWLING…_

_NO!_

_He squeezed his eyes shut and with a final lunge his shoulder hit the metal bar that opened the door and he was finally through, inside the safe room at last. He spun around just in time to see a dark figure springing straight for him with a hellish scream above the charging bodies of the ordinary Infected, a jump far beyond the physical capabilities of any normal human being; the light above the doorway glinted off of stained, sharpened teeth and claws and two wild eyes aglow beneath a hood…_

_Thomas grabbed the battered, steel-plated door and slammed it shut with the last bit of strength he was capable of summoning, hearing it lock itself with a heavy click - not a second later it shuddered in its frame as the beast's body smashed into the other side. There was a barely-audible snapping sound and a yelp, then nothing. He stood there, swaying, dumbstruck with disbelief and alone in the dark, empty room where five others should've been with him, hands still clamped white-knuckled around his well-used Submachine Gun. He listened blankly to the weaker Infected baying and pounding at the door for him; against all odds, he'd made it - he was safe, for now… but completely, totally, and hopelessly alone._

_His knees trembled, buckled, and finally gave out underneath him from sheer exhaustion; he fell back against a wall, sliding slowly down until he was in a sitting position on the floor, wheezing, aching, soaked and shivering with the combined cold and crazed overexertion. The pain was finally catching up to him; not all of it was physical. Neither his panting nor the continuously pouring rain outside could do anything to stifle the sounds of the roaring, pounding horde, or the pack's victorious cries of a hunger sated and ripping viscera…_

_He finally released his death-grip on the gun; it clattered onto the tiles beside him. He fell over on his side, curled into a pathetic, shaking ball, and wept._

oOo

…_I'm not very good at writing fast-paced, intense action scenes, okay? (I've gotten a tad rusty in the few months I haven't SERIOUSLY attempted to write anything, pfffft.)_

_So yeah, only a weak prologue for right now (hopefully it came across as fast and desperate-sounding and FILLED WITH DANGER as I would've liked), but I hope to have the ACTUAL first chapter done soon, work, college, and muse permitting, so stay tuned! Any reviews would be greatly appreciated! (__And for the love of God, don't worry - this story won't be written ENTIRELY in italics. Hahaha.)_

_PS: The title of this fanfic comes from a Shinedown song, also called "Unity". I had to. The lyrics were just TOO fitting, heh. Until next time!_


	2. Chapter 1: My Town

_Now, on to the REAL show._

_(Please note that this fanfic focuses on FAN characters. None of the canon survivors will be mentioned or making an appearance. But that doesn't mean I won't still try to make it a worthwhile read~!)_

_- Hemoptysis_

_I do not own the Left 4 Dead series or any of its contents, duh. Only Thomas as a fan character._

oOo

**Unity**

**Chapter 1: My Town**

Thomas awoke, trembling and drenched in a cold sweat.

Slowly, he sat up, pushing aside the thin sheets that had entangled themselves in his legs. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, burying his face in his hands.

Three months. It'd been nearly _three months_ since that'd happened, and still the nightmares occurred on an almost nightly basis. In painful detail.

He waited for the shaking (and his racing pulse) to subside a bit before getting to his feet. Instinctively he reached for the machete on the bedside table, gripping it tightly in one hand as he crept to the bedroom door and peeked out into the hallway. Nothing but darkness and silence. As expected. He forced himself to slide the weapon back into the sheath he'd managed to sleep with strapped onto his right thigh, just like he did every morning. It seemed ridiculous, he knew that well enough, and he felt silly for it, but he blamed force of habit. You could never be too careful.

He crossed the hall into the bathroom, lit only by the feeble sunlight streaming in through a very small, rectangular window above the shower. The power had been out for weeks now and he'd never gotten around to finding a generator of some sort to fix that. Didn't really feel the need to. Generators were noisy and needed to be maintained. And around here, noisy was the _last_ thing you wanted.

He turned on the sink and let the cold water run, splashing some on his face to shake off the grogginess. He looked up into the mirror; the forlorn face of a forty-six-year-old man stared back at him. Worn and scruffy, with a blond goatee and shoulder-length hair streaked with gray, the bags beneath his tired blue eyes evidence of months of minimal sleep. The bit of muscle he'd managed to gain with casual exercise thinly veiled the sudden and unhealthy weight loss. He turned away from his reflection. He'd never liked looking at this shadow of himself for too long.

Thomas left the bathroom and headed down the hallway towards the kitchen which, honestly, resembled an underground army bunker more than anything else now – it was dark, like the rest of the house, the only light sources being whatever sunlight could filter in between the slats on the boards across the windows, and sometimes a candle or two if he needed it. Mostly, though, there was food. Stacked cans and boxes of nonperishable food items, taking up most available space in the pantry, on the counters, the kitchen table, even some of the floor, all collected on his little "outings" into the city. Canned fruit, beans, tuna, you name it, he probably had it somewhere around here. Even the stuff that he couldn't actually eat without boiling first, like the raw pasta. Still, no point in letting it go to waste… just in case he ever _did_ get somewhere he'd be able to cook it. Maybe.

He grabbed the first can he saw – baked beans. Alright. Breakfast, then. He pried the lid off halfway with a can opener and dumped some into his mouth like a morning cup of coffee. They were unpleasantly cold and lumpy, sure, but he didn't care. So long as they staved off the hunger for the day. He didn't like to eat too much… he wanted to make sure his stash of food lasted as long as he might need it to. It'd already started getting harder to find what hadn't initially been looted in the chaos or snatched up later by other survivors a while ago…

He took another swig of beans and wandered over to the window above the sink, peering out through a space in between two boards. He couldn't see all that much, but from what he could tell by the lighting it was going to be yet another overcast day…

Something suddenly moved into his peripheral vision, so quick that Thomas jumped back in surprise, nearly sloshing the beans all over his hand. He ducked down a bit and slowly approached the window again, thankful that the boards hid him from view. He should've known; it was just an Infected, passing through the alleyway. One of the "Common" ones. A young woman, gray-skinned, dressed in a blood and filth-stained blouse and pair of pants. She swayed as she stumbled along towards the street, lost in a perpetual haze of fever and pain, oblivious to everything around her but her own suffering and, every now and then, a potential meal. He found his gaze softening, if only just a little. It'd become an all too common sight, of course… all of the unfortunate souls that had succumbed to the "Green Flu" outbreak, completely stripped of their humanity in only a matter of _days_. "_Flu_"... he snorted. Hardly. He'd never known a _flu _to have an effect like this. To make people become enraged, violent, rabid. Like beasts. He'd watched others slaughter crowds of them without a second thought, with all manner of tools. Knives, guns, swords, even molotovs and crudely-made pipe bombs a couple of times. But him… he preferred to leave them alone unless he was absolutely _forced_ to defend himself.

He knew they were barely anything that could even _remotely_ be considered "human" anymore. He knew there was no point in showing them mercy. It was a wasted effort… they couldn't be reasoned with. But they _had_ been human. Husbands. Wives. Parents. _Children_. Once upon a time. Just… victims of circumstances beyond their control. And not everybody could forget that so easily.

Thomas continued to watch the infected woman meander about in the entrance of the alleyway, lost in thought, until she made a retching sound harsh enough to be heard through the window and bent over to heave up a stomachful of blood-tinged vomit. It made a disgustingly loud spattering sound as it hit the concrete, and then she continued on her way as though nothing had happened.

He cringed, feeling his own stomach turn at the sight. He glanced down at the can of beans still clutched in his hand, and set it down on the counter. Pretty safe to say that'd just destroyed his appetite for a while.

He sighed, turning away from the window. He suddenly felt hot and queasy, his mouth dry. He needed something to drink. He strode over to the kitchen table, kneeling down to look underneath it, where he'd taken to stashing the cases of bottled water he'd picked up. Nothing but two large plastic wrappers were left. Even the few gallon-sized water jugs next to them had been emptied. He groaned. Had he really drained them all that fast? He couldn't have had all of those for longer than a month, at most… and he'd be _damned_ if he'd drink anything that came out of the taps around here. No telling _what_ could be contaminating the city's water supply at this point…

He stood back up, and looked over at his barricade of a front door, unease creeping into his stomach.

He'd have to go _outside_ today.

Even just _thinking_ about it made him feel wary. It'd been almost a week since he'd last ventured out of his home, and since an unexpected encounter with an angry Spitter had left him with a pair of jeans half-dissolved by acid and a sense of thankfulness that the light burns to his ankles hadn't been worse. He'd gotten used to the Infected enough that ordinarily he was able to identify when they were approaching (and even what kind), but that little sneak attack had spooked him enough to keep him indoors like, he felt, a coward, cursing his carelessness. Well, he couldn't keep doing_ that_, anyway...

Thomas marched back up the hallway to his bedroom and pulled on the first shirt he saw on the floor that wasn't stained half-red by some Infected's blood; a faded green one with a large, stenciled logo on the front that read "_Fairfield Construction Co._"… his former workplace. Before… well, before all of _this_ had happened. Which he didn't like to think about. He quickly distracted himself by walking over to his dresser, upon which he kept his most frequently-used weapons. His eyes immediately flew to the one he prized most – a hunting rifle with a mounted scope and a length of yellow and black-striped caution tape wrapped tightly around it. His friend Stephen had given it to him back when the outbreak had begun, eventually teaching him to snipe Infected from a safe distance. He'd gotten good at it. A nice guy, Stephen. A real gun buff, the best shooter they'd had in their party of six… until…

_Stop._ he thought quickly. _Stop it, Thomas. It's over now. They're gone. They've BEEN gone. Don't even think about it._

He instead busied himself with his preparations, pulling on his boots and a belt made up of mostly of pouches for his hoarded ammunition. _Just going through the motions._ he couldn't help but think with a grim half-smile as he pulled on a large backpack and picked up his rifle. Then he was reluctantly shuffling his way back down the hall, past the kitchen and now right in front of the door. He stared at it with an unreadable expression, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes to mentally stabilize himself.

_Don't be stupid this time._

He unbarred and unlatched the reinforced door and shoved it open. The sudden burst of sunlight, even darkened by cloud cover, was enough to nearly make him stagger. He shielded his eyes against the glare and stepped forward, scanning the area surrounding his home. His was a small, city-oriented house nestled comfortably in an outer part of Fairfield reserved more for housing units, though not terribly far from the busier main parts of the city. Or, at least, it _had_ been – once clean and well-kept streets were now littered with the wrecked remains of overturned vehicles and plenty of large, brownish-red stains that were more than likely dried blood. Several homes across the street were blackened and charred by fires that'd burned themselves out months ago, and even still they smelled smoky. The quiet alone was almost deafening. No more cars, no more people, no more civilized life, no more _anything_… unless you counted the far-off screams of the infected hordes towards the center of the ci-

A guttural cry from the left made him snap to attention - he turned to see a lone Common Infected sprinting towards him from behind a parked car. He could easily see the yellow flash of his eyes, the blood and drool dangling from his jaw as he closed the distance between them with unnatural speed…

Thomas reacted more by reflex than by actual thinking; his right hand flew to the handle of the machete still concealed in its sheath and whipped it out, swinging it in a practiced arc just as the Common Infected lunged for him, shrieking. The sharpened blade sank nearly halfway into his neck, and a second later the Infected's knees buckled and he fell lifeless to the pavement, gurgling and twitching.

He looked down at the Infected's body as he finally became still, trying to ignore the sickeningly warm sensation of his blood trickling down his arm. He'd barely noticed that he'd been gripping the handle of the machete tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. He sighed, slipping it back into its sheath. _It's not murder. _he reminded himself for what must've been the hundredth time in three months. _It's mercy._

He readjusted his grip on the rifle and took off into the alleyway to the left of his home, keeping low to the ground. He knew where he could find some more water, sure… there'd been several cases of it hidden in a back room in a local gas station, somehow spared by the looters and the passing survivors. He was just unable to carry it all back at once, so had resorted to fetching a new case whenever he needed one. It was a little bit of a walk, though, and that meant he had to put his "sneaking around" skills to good use. It was a risky game, sure, but one he'd learned to play, and play _well_.

He reached the end of the alleyway and crouched down, peering out into the neighboring street. He was thankful he lived in a part of the city that was fairly out of the way; it seemed that a lot of the Common Infected had a tendency to stay together in large groups, and stick to the more "open" areas towards the center of Fairfield, which was a pretty good distance away from this particular neighborhood. There were a few on this street that he could see from here, of course, but they were farther down a bit and he was confident that he'd be able to slip past them undetected. It was… a _talent_ he'd developed since the start of the outbreak, once he'd noticed a _quirk_ of the Infected's…

Thomas sneaked slowly out of the alley and towards an overturned car about fifteen feet away, staying crouched and keeping an eye on the Infected wandering about just a short distance up the road. He'd figured out some things about the Infected, after being alone for so long and consequently having plenty of time to observe their "behavior". The first thing he'd noticed? They were drawn to noise. Car alarms, gunshots, yelling of any kind, they'd go streaking towards it like moths to a flame, making their own racket, drawing in even _more_. He couldn't help but think… maybe _that _was why so many survivors had failed. They didn't understand. They were scared, reckless… understandably so, charging in, guns-a-blazing. But they'd essentially been ringing the dinner bell to their own demise the entire time.

But _he_ understood. From his many trips outside, he'd learned to "read" the Infected. Learn their various appearances, the sounds they made, their habits, hell, even their _scents_. Most of the time, though, it was simply a matter of _staying quiet_. If you did that and stayed out of their lines of sight, most of the Infected wouldn't even know you were there.

Maybe it wasn't so bad that he was alone.

He reached the car and ducked behind it, putting out a hand to steady his balance. He cautiously raised himself until he was able to peek over top of it, making sure they hadn't come too close. He was lucky. These were only the _average_ kind of Infected. Slow (until they spotted you, anyway), dumb, clumsy. Pretty easy to overwhelm until they came at you in large numbers…

It was the "Special" Infected you had to watch out for. Those that'd been claimed by the Green Flu and then somehow mutated by it into these horrible biological weapons. There were big, fat ones so swollen and bloated with bile they could hurl it up on you from twenty feet away if they wanted to (and they did). Ones that could spit balls of acid from even farther than that. Ones that could snare you from the rooftops with a tongue as long and powerful as a length of chain. There were even ones so big and angry they could toss cars as easily as if they were _toys_. And that wasn't even all of them. No, not even _close_.

The Special Infected were smarter. More _adapted_. They didn't just wander around in some sickly stupor. They weren't drawn to loud noises, controlled by the whims of a horde. They actively sought prey. And if even just _one_ caught you alone and unawares… your chances of getting away alive were slim.

There was a good amount of open space from here to the safety of another alley. He'd have to be quick. Quick and silent. Continuing to watch the small group of Infected, he inched his way towards the back end of the vehicle. Suddenly, the closest one snarled, and he froze, thinking she had heard or spotted him; but as he watched, she flung herself forward onto another female Common Infected close to her. The pair immediately began to grapple, biting and clawing and screeching at each other with an animalistic fervor. Aggravated by the racket, the other few Infected joined in on the spontaneous brawl, until what'd started out as two had become an entire gang of flailing, punching limbs and angry howling.

It was a pathetic sight to behold, but he took the opportunity to run across the open gap and roll behind the front stoop of the nearest house, staying hunkered down with held breath. Once he was certain that they were still too busy fighting to have noticed him, he quickly dove into the alley. He allowed himself to stand after a moment, breathing a slow sigh of relief. Good, that was one obstacle passed by...

He hadn't gone very far when a piercing screech sounded from someplace nearby, maybe only a couple of blocks over, echoing off the sides of the buildings. Thomas' reaction was instantaneous - in the blink of an eye, his back was flat against the brick wall in the middle of the alleyway, gripping his rifle with trembling hands. His heart had leaped into his throat, his blue eyes wide and flickering back and forth with something like a bizarre, unlikely mix of terror and blind rage. He knew that sound. Oh, _he did_. A cold sweat broke out on his skin as images of fast, muscular creatures leaping from rooftop to rooftop assailed him, eyes aglow, fingers tipped with claws like razor blades…

_Don't you dare, motherfucker..._ was the first thing that popped into his head. _No… no no no no NO… don't you dare… if you find me, I swear to God, I'll…_

The screech came again, but this time it sounded farther away than the first. A moment later, a third time, but even farther, until it faded away and all that remained was the silence from before. It didn't come again.

He'd managed to get his breathing back under control, though his heart was still pounding a mile a minute. He forced himself to keep moving along, quietly scolding himself for allowing his stress to get the better of him, with little success.

_Fuckers..._ he thought bitterly. _Horrible creatures. Monsters. I hate them. I hate them ALL. If that thing crosses me, I swear I'll-_

_Stop it, Thomas._ He coaxed the nasty thoughts into a halt. _Don't distract yourself. Eyes, ears, and MIND open. Keep it that way._

Like before, he peeked out onto the next street, looking around for any more Infected. He was in luck; this street was deserted, save for the dead ones, of course. The gas station wasn't too far off now. Just down this street and around the corner, and he'd be there. He took off at a brisk jog down the road, trying his best to ignore the corpses and the stench of death and decay that hung heavily in the air.

He could hear loud cawing and fluttering sounds, and he glanced up to see flocks of crows and even a vulture or two perched on the edges of the rooftops, some staring down at him with their beady black eyes, others in the street, busily strutting around the remains of the dead Infected. He didn't pay them any real attention. He was used to them, too. They were _everywhere_. The birds had moved in once the survivors had given up the city for lost and the bodies decomposing in the streets had proved too irresistible to ignore. It was strange, though… he knew very well that they were scavengers, they fed on flesh, but for some reason, he'd never witnessed any of them actually _eating_ the corpses. They hung around the bodies all the time, squabbled over them, even sat on _top_ of them, but never did they eat. He felt it probably had something to do with the Green Flu. They could smell it in the flesh, tainted by disease, and the "self-preservation" instinct seemed to override the hunger. Not that it mattered, really. The other Infected were always quick to chase the birds away for a chance at the easy meal…

He shuddered. He was sure to drop the revolting thought before he could picture it, too.

He reached the corner and paused, looking both ways up and down the adjacent street. _Yes_! The gas station was there on the right, just up this road. He could see it from here, and there were still no live Infected to be found. Certainly a good thing, but his found his brow furrowing. Where _were_ they all? This area was big enough that he was sure there'd be _some_ hanging around…

Thomas decided to ignored it for now and press right, keeping one eye on the beckoning "_Stop N' Shop_" sign and the other out for any Infected lurking in the shadows. He was still perplexed by the lack of even any Common Infected… it was making him nervous. It felt like some kind of weird calm before a storm. Crows and vultures cawed from the rooftops, but other than that, it was completely silent.

He came to a stop in the middle of the street, panting slightly. He'd reached his destination, the gas station on the opposite side of this intersection. It was pretty old and small, with only four pumps (two now missing) and a front window that'd been smashed to pieces, the door itself gone altogether. It looked as gray and lifeless as the overcast midday sky, and just as suspiciously devoid of Infected...

He'd only taken a couple of steps forward when he heard it. A soft moaning, just barely audible from this far away but apparently coming from the direction of the gas station. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. He strained his ears to make sure that he wasn't simply_ imagining_ the sound, but no, he could still hear the moaning and crying, straight ahead.

…_You have GOT to be kidding me._

His steps became slower, more cautious as he approached the building, keeping his rifle raised. The crying became louder the closer he got, and seemed to be coming from the darkened interior of the shop… exactly where he himself happened to need to go, too. Of course.

He crossed the parking lot, only feet away from the battered storefront. Yes, the crying was most definitely coming from inside the shop, but from _where_ exactly inside, he couldn't tell. He thought about the other survivors that'd encountered this type of situation before him. The less experienced ones. Naïve and unsuspecting, they might've mistaken these sounds for another survivor, injured and hiding, waiting for someone to come by and help them...

But he wasn't so easily fooled.

Thomas leaned against the wall by the edge of the window. Pulse quickening, he very slowly turned himself, just enough that he could peer inside the shop through the broken window without revealing too much of his body. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, he spotted the source of the crying – the pallid form of a young woman, kneeling on the tile floor between two shelves, her back to him. She was dirty and haggard-looking, her ribs pronounced against her skin and her tattered undergarments hanging loosely from her thin frame. She swayed slightly from side to side as she sobbed, blind to everything around her but whatever it was that made her kind so constantly miserable.

His lip curled. Any other more reckless survivor might've rushed in immediately, wanting to aid the poor girl. From this angle, they wouldn't have been able to see her hands, crossed in her lap, fingers lengthened and stretched into long, bony claws stained red with blood. They'd never suspect a thing as they'd run up behind her, asking if she was alright, put out a hand to touch her…

They'd never live to learn the golden rule of this Special Infected - you never, _ever_, startle a Witch.

Well, the lack of any Infected in the surrounding area made much more sense now. They _were_ a lot like animals, in some ways… and it wasn't unusual for weaker animals to shy away from the territory of the stronger, more deadly ones.

He crouched down just enough to give him some room over the window frame, bringing his rifle around until it was pointed directly at the weeping woman. He looked into the mounted scope, carefully aiming until the crosshairs were centered directly at the back of her head. His finger rested lightly on the trigger guard, hesitant. Something in her mournful calls tugged at his heart, more than they should've. It sounded so distressed, so... so _human_. Just a victim, like any other. She was _suffering_.

At the very least, he could free her, right now. It would be quick and painless.

"…Forgive me." he whispered, and pulled the trigger.

There was a resounding crack that caused the scavenger birds behind him to take wing with indignant squawks, and half of the Witch's skull exploded in a grisly shower of blood, gore, brain matter, and chunks of skull. She slumped over on her side, dead instantly, blood pooling around the shattered remnants of her head. Her crying, hushed. For good.

Thomas winced, and turned away from the gruesome sight. He felt... numb. He was no stranger to killing in this way; he'd done it many times before now, all exactly the same. But there was something about putting down an Infected that sounded so goddamned helpless and _human_ that always left a bad taste in his mouth. He'd had to do it. He wouldn't have been able to get around her without provoking her into attacking. He'd always done what he had to to keep himself alive. But it still didn't make him feel any better. He doubted anything ever _could_. No matter how dangerous they were.

He stood and entered the shop through the doorway, pieces of glass crunching underfoot. It was long deserted and emptied, shelves overturned as though a small tornado had passed through here. All that remained of the stock were a few scattered cans busted open and spoiled, and some candy bars on a rack that had melted through their boxes. He wasn't here for that. He made straight for the back room, careful to give the body of the dead Witch a wide berth. He didn't look at her. He _couldn_'_t_.

The back room was always dark whenever he'd visited it. It was fairly large, shelves lining every wall. There were still some boxes and cans left on them, somehow mercifully untouched by everybody who'd come before, but right now he was focused on only the most important of the items left behind. He knelt down, feeling along a bottom shelf for several feet until his hand brushed against the plastic wrapping of a case of bottled water, shoved far back against the wall. _Perfect_.

He smiled a little, pleased with his success, and wasted no time in dragging it out and shoving it into his backpack. it was a tight fit (and heavy), and he could only zip it up about halfway. He'd have to be careful not to let it fall out on the walk home. But he was set. For a little while, anyway.

Thomas turned and headed back out through the store, ready for the return journey to his personal safe house. He could only hope it'd be as easy.

oOo

_Ugh. Writing's difficult. It's no wonder it doesn't exactly come naturally to me._

_Well, this took a lot longer to write out than I'd intended it to, and the longer I look at it, the more I start to hate it, hahaha. Sorry about that. I'd like to say that future chapters will be out in a timelier manner, but I guess I apparently can't promise something like that, can I? Gah!_

_Well, there you go. Something of an introduction into what Thomas' world has become since his friends were killed, and how he's learned to get around on his own in this crazy, zombie apocalypse-stricken wasteland of a city. If only I knew how to write better, weh. (Christ, I need to become more self-confident about my writing...) We'll learn more in chapter two, coming soon. Until then, comrades! _


	3. Chapter 2: His Reasons

_I do not own the Left 4 Dead series or anything from it. I own only my fan characters._

oOo

**Unity**

**Chapter 2: His Reasons**

A few hours later found the clouds outside ever darkening, plunging the house into even further shadow. Thomas lay in bed on his back, on top of the meticulously-straightened covers, so as to not disturb them. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, half burned away, a thin trail of smoke drifting towards the ceiling. He hadn't smoked in over twenty years. Not since before his daughter's birth. Kind of funny how the stresses of the "zombie apocalypse" could make one crave the temporary comfort of a good smoke. He knew it was a bad habit to fall back into, especially in a situation where keeping fit and healthy was in your best interest, but still he found himself caring less and less.

His half-lidded eyes traveled around the room, to the laptop folded on the desk beside the bed, now covered in a fine layer of dust, to the posters of various rock bands tacked onto the walls (predominately "Avenged Sevenfold"), to the clothing still hanging up untouched in the closet. The work uniform draped across a chair, the framed photographs, the tattered plush dinosaur that had to be over fifteen years old…

This wasn't _his_ room. This was the room that'd belonged to his twenty-one-year-old daughter, Katheryn.

His eyes fell back to what he held in his hand; a bent photo, taken about five months ago. A photo of himself, looking so much happier and well-groomed that it felt as though the man in the picture was a complete stranger. He was at a barbecue a friend had been having, smiling cheerfully at the camera, his hand on the shoulder of a young woman with chin-length blonde hair and dressed in a fur-trimmed, leopard-spotted hoodie. His daughter. His beautiful daughter. His pride and joy and the reason behind most everything he'd done in the past two decades. He even had her name tattooed on his upper back, just behind the left shoulder, surrounded by ribbons and roses.

And he hadn't seen her since the day the outbreak had begun.

Thomas stared at the photo as he had countless times over the past several weeks, at his daughter's amused half-smile and blue eyes just like his own, and he had to fight to stave off the sudden flood of emotion that threatened to strangle him and bring frustrated tears to his eyes. He allowed his mind to wander, back to the last time he'd been in contact with her. Back to the last time he'd heard her voice.

_It was a Sunday morning like any other, around eight or so, and he was in the kitchen, fixing breakfast for himself. Golden early-morning sunlight beamed in through the open window above the sink, filling the room with a sleepy sort of warmth. The radio on the windowsill was turned up, tuned into the local news-talk station, where of course the main headline and topic of discussion was the unusual illness that seemed to be spreading throughout the nation like wildfire, as it had been for the past several days…_

"…_the sickness, with its notably strong flu-like symptoms, is proving to be highly contagious and spreading quickly… close contact with sick individuals is discouraged, and everyone is urged to keep their hands and work surfaces clean…"_

_Thomas listened to the broadcast with furrowed brows, pouring himself another cup of coffee. After another minute of listening to the newscaster rattle off several other possible health safety measures, he lowered the volume and distracted himself by buttering some toast. It was next to impossible to escape talk of the recent flu "pandemic" – it was the word on the lips of most everybody you passed by lately, whether they were brushing it off or speaking of it in harsh, panicked whispers. There were more and more cases reported every day… hundreds. Maybe even thousands. There'd even been deaths… or so he thought he'd heard. He didn't really know. He was trying not to pay it too much mind. He had enough to bog him down as it was…_

_A soft mewl at his feet startled him, and he looked down to see his daughter's aging cat, Inkwell, brushing his sleek, black body up against his pant leg, and a moment later, his daughter walked in behind him. It was obvious she'd just woken up, blonde hair tousled, eyes drooping with tiredness. She'd already thrown her hoodie on, too. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. She'd hardly ever taken that thing off ever since he got it for her nearly four years ago, and it'd since become a running joke between the two of them._

"_Morning, sunshine." he said, raising his mug at her. "You're up early for a day off…"_

_She shuffled past him with a yawn, heading towards the medicine cabinet. "Morning, dad. Just… had trouble falling asleep last night. Then I woke up ten minutes ago and couldn't get back to sleep, so…" She shrugged and smiled slightly at him. "Here I am." Then, her smile faded slightly as she squinted at him, dressed for the day in his construction worker's uniform. "I thought you had today off, too…?"_

_Thomas sighed, taking another sip of coffee. "I DID, but I'm covering somebody else's shift now. He called out sick…" He shook his head. "It's that damn flu going around. We've got more and more workers dropping like flies every day. We're understaffed over there and stuck busting our asses tenfold to make sure we don't fall behind…" Shrugging, he drained the rest of his coffee. "I have to admit, it's worrying me a little. People have apparently been DYING from this…"_

_Katheryn toyed with the piercing in her lower lip, as she often did when she was thinking, and shrugged. "It's… not the first time a nasty bug's gone around and done some damage." She opened up the medicine cabinet and started rummaging through it. "Don't stress yourself out over it too much. All we can really do's try and keep ourselves healthy, then." She gave him a small smile. "And getting stressed out makes it easier for you to get sick, right…?"_

_He chuckled. She'd always been pretty good at taking his mind off of negative things. Very reminiscent of her mother, in fact… he quickly let that thought drop before the pang of emotional pain became readable on his face. "I guess so…" He was about to say something else but stopped when he saw Katheryn pull out a bottle of high-strength ibuprofen. Immediately, warning bells began to sound off in his mind. "Ibuprofen? What's wrong? You're not feeling sick, are you…?" He took a few steps toward her, concern etched into every muscle on his face._

_She jumped a little, giving him a bewildered look. "No, it's just… a little migraine, is all." She held up her hands. "That's it. I'm fine. Promise…"_

_He gave her a long, searching look. Something in her eyes, something in the way she'd said it gave him a nagging doubt, but perhaps he was just being paranoid again. "Are you sure…?"_

"_Yeah, dad, chill. I'm fine, seriously." She snorted. "You're letting this flu stuff get to you too much. Just try to stay away from any sick people and I'll do the same, okay? It's just a migraine. I'll be okay." She waved a dismissive hand. "No stressing, remember?"_

"…_Yeah. No stressing." He forced a quick smile and picked up his duffel bag. "Can't be late now. See you later, hun. Love you. Oh, and don't forget to feed Inky."_

_She smiled. "I won't. Later, dad. Love you, too."_

A sudden small, burning pain on his left collarbone made him yelp, jerking him back into full wakefulness. He grabbed at it, and his fingers closed around the remnants of his cigarette; he was so tired he'd completely forgotten he'd been smoking it. It'd fallen out of his mouth. He cursed and crushed the butt in his fist, turning over on his side. The photo still dangled between the fingers of his other hand, a lifeline to that past life that he could never bring himself to release.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing slowly, painfully. He'd left the house that fateful morning without a suspicion in the world as to what was coming, spreading, like a thick, green, poisonous storm cloud rolling in from some hellish horizon. Just a day like any other, surely. He'd go to work, finish his shift, then return home to his daughter and make dinner. Just like they always did.

It was only when he'd actually _arrived_ at the construction site that he'd noticed something was amiss. He remembered walking in to find a scene of budding chaos; people dressed in white uniforms and surgical masks bustling in and around the site, moving from worker to worker. They'd seemed to be questioning them, taking notes, quite aggressively, in fact, even going so far as to shine lights into their eyes despite the worker's vehement protests. His friend Brent, along with a site manager, had been arguing with one of them. He'd looked pretty official, holding a clipboard, wearing a crisp, white lab coat-type shirt, a logo reading "CEDA" stitched onto the left side. The leader, perhaps. All he'd heard as he'd walked up was something about them being on "official government business" or some shit and how they were "trying to identify infected individuals" and then he'd stormed away towards another group of workers without further explanation. They'd been confused. Confused, angry, and maybe even a little frightened. Interfering with their jobs over a _flu_? But why? Surely it wasn't serious enough to bring their entire project to a standstill…?

He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the wall as he remembered how they'd been gradually herded into a large tented area set up around the corner from the construction site, and told to remain there until further notice. They hadn't been allowed to leave, though several of them had tried to argue with and shoulder past the guards. And it hadn't taken long for them to notice that not _all_ of them were there. Several of their colleagues had apparently been taken to a separate tent, the guards refusing to tell them why when questioned. The ripples of anger and unease had started spreading through their group like wildfire.

There was _something_ about this "flu" that nobody was telling them.

That word again. "_Flu_". As always, Thomas allowed himself a bitter chuckle at it, turning over onto his back. They'd believed it, too (though more by ignorance than anything). They'd known nothing of what was to come. Until sunset, anyway. Until the world they'd known was extinguished forever.

He remembered a commotion from somewhere a short distance away from their tent; someone shouting, a strange sound, like a roar, and then gunshots that'd made everybody inside bolt to their feet in alarm. Hushed, panicked whispers abounded. Suddenly, more roars, more gunshots. The sounds of people shouting and running past outside. The guards keeping watch outside their tent seemed to disregard them completely, taking off somewhere out of sight to the left. They could still hear the awful roaring sounds, like wild animals, the gunshots. One of them made a run for the entrance, skidding to a halt just outside it – only for one of the workers that'd been taken to the other tent to suddenly jump on him, pin him to the ground, and start tearing into his neck with his teeth.

That's when they'd panicked. That's when they'd bolted. He could still remember the yells of pain and terror that'd filled the air as they'd poured through the entrance of the tent and into the street, scattering, every man for themselves. He'd headed straight for his car, weaving in between the running bodies of co-workers and CEDA personnel, trying not to stop and stare in disbelief as men attacked each other with nails and teeth like rabid dogs, skins the sickly, graying color of the badly diseased…

He'd had no idea what was going on, or that his life was about to be shattered forever, and not even for the first time. He'd only known one thing – he had to get to his daughter.

Thomas winced, moving a hand up to cover his eyes. This was where the memories always became particularly painful. He'd raced home like his very life depended on it (hell, it very well _could_'_ve_), knowing full well it didn't matter when the whole city would soon enough be enveloped in total chaos. He'd reached their small city house, only to find Katheryn's car gone and the front door unlocked, ajar. And, on her bedroom floor, her cat Inkwell, dead in a pool of his own blood, his throat torn and mangled in a way that looked like something had been _eating_ him...

He moved his fingers just enough to peek through them, over at the corner of the room, where a patch of gray carpet was discolored a dark reddish-brown. The stain had never fully come out.

And that's when time had ceased to function as he knew it, and everything had seemed to be happening either too fast, too slow, or not at all. He'd been nearly on the verge of hysterics at that point, having no choice but to lock and barricade every door and window in their home (after making sure that whatever had killed the cat wasn't still in there) and repeatedly call his daughter's cell phone, desperate to get in contact with her, desperate to know where she was, if she was safe. He'd gotten nothing but voice-mail every time. _Nothing_. He'd run to the kitchen, turned on the radio, but no matter which way he'd turn the dial, he'd get nothing but static, brief blips of voices, something like a garbled warning transmission. The television hadn't had much to offer him, either. Just static there, too. And so, terrified and alone, he'd had no choice but to grab the closest thing to a weapon he'd owned up until then (a kitchen knife) and hunker down in his kitchen until frantic knocking at his door had forced him to crack it open and find five of his friends from work, alive, disheveled, laden with weapons, and thereby setting the tone for the most confusing, grueling, and terrifying week of their lives.

They hadn't known anything other than the city – and apparently everywhere else – was going straight to Hell, and they had to get out alive. They almost had, too. And then…

He sighed, a long, pain-ridden wheeze of a sound. And then… he was alone. And then… here he was, three months later.

But, then again… he hadn't really been planning on leaving the city with his friends in the first place, had he?

He sat up in the bed, resting his chin on top of his fist. No, he hadn't. He'd planned on making sure his friends got out of the city alright, that much was certain (and he hadn't even managed to do _that_), but he hadn't intended to go _with_ them. He hadn't been planning on telling them that until the time was right, though. He knew they only would've tried to stop him, they would've told him he was insane, had they made it far enough to do so. But he didn't care. He'd had it in his mind to stay behind in the city, by himself, as long as he had to.

He wasn't leaving until he knew for sure that his daughter was no longer in the city. That's why he was still here, after all. Alone. Alone and _searching_.

His lip curled. So far, he'd found nothing. Day after day he'd skulk about through the streets and alleys (fuck, even the sewers and subway tunnels) of Fairfield like some kind of stray dog, fighting off the Infected he couldn't manage to sneak around, eyes constantly peeled for a glimpse of short-cut blonde hair, of an orange, spotted hoodie, anything at all, praying that the next maggot-ridden corpse he accidentally stumbled over wasn't _hers_. Of course, he was still hopeful that she'd taken her car and left the city at the first sign of trouble; he'd never found it, at least. A part of his heart still somehow believed despite everything that she'd left the city, and she was safe somewhere right now, being taken care of, and they'd be reunited again soon. That if she was still here, alive or… or God forbid, _dead_, that he would've found her by now. It was all he could do to keep that tiny flame of hope flickering for so long.

Christ, he hadn't even seen another non-infected human being in, what… a month and a half? (It wasn't as if the same recorded evacuation messages looped on repeat counted, or were even around to listen to anymore.) He thought back to the run-in with a group of four fellow survivors from weeks before, passing through Fairfield on their way to… wherever it is they were going. Yeah, that was _definitely_ a good while ago. He'd offered them some food and shelter for the night, and they'd been on their way the next day. Hell, he'd been almost certain the leader of the four was going to try and drag him along with them by force – none of them could seem to grasp the concept of a survivor _wanting_ to hang around a city completely overrun by hordes of Infected. He recalled being fairly evasive about explaining his motives, simply hinting at having "unfinished business" to attend to, and left it at that. At least he hadn't been _dishonest_.

In time, he'd leave, certainly. He'd move along to wherever it was local survivors went, and hopefully find his daughter waiting for him in the end. But not until he'd combed through every last dismal inch of this city, until he'd seen every last goddamned body. Every last Infected. No matter how long it took him, he'd do it without a second thought.

He… he had to be _sure_.

Thomas suddenly realized his fists were clenched, nearly crushing his prized photograph; he quickly relaxed them, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles and giving it one last look before folding and tucking it safely back into his wallet. His eyes flew around the room, anxiously taking in the shadowy shapes of his daughter's untouched possessions. It suddenly felt too hot in here. Too dark, like the shadows could physically reach out and snare him, snare him like the inhumanly powerful hands of the Infected…

He abruptly stood and left the bedroom, marching up the hallway towards his own. He couldn't stay in here right now. The thinking was getting to him, the memories. He had to go outside for a while, distract himself. Breathe a bit.

He grabbed his rifle from the bed and slung it over his shoulder, stopping only to quickly slip his boots and ammunition belt on, and then he was back at his door, standing before it as he often did before he left the house. Many would think him a madman, going out there for no reason other than to clear his mind, knowing what monstrosities now ran rampant in the streets. Again, he didn't care. He was used to it. He knew a lot more about them than probably CEDA themselves did at this point, and he knew where to go. _CEDA..._ He grunted in disdainful amusement. _What a goddamn JOKE_.

Thomas at least thought enough to look through the peephole (nothing out there right now, mercifully) before again undoing all the locks and bars on the door and stepping outside. The air was cool and moist; dusk was fast approaching, though it was darker than it'd usually be, thanks to the thick cloud cover. The breeze was picking up, too, whistling between the buildings and through the broken windows, pushing trash around in the street. It'd probably storm later that night. Perhaps that'd keep the more dangerous Infected indoors, out of the rain and wind. Not that he'd be out long enough to find out, anyway. He never stayed out after dark.

_They_ liked to come out after dark.

He shivered and rested a hand on the handle of his machete as he took off through the same left-hand alleyway he'd taken earlier before, though when he reached the end of it he went in the opposite direction of the gas station. As always, he kept close to the shadows cast by the buildings, his head bowed, moving as quickly and quietly as he could manage. His destination happened to be closer to Fairfield's outskirts this time, where the Infected were fewer and farther between, so he wasn't _quite_ as concerned as he'd ordinarily be – he had his rifle, bouncing against his back, his machete, and where he was headed was out of the way enough…

About ten minutes and a brief scuffle with a stray Common Infected later, Thomas found himself staring across the street at a decrepit old apartment building, very tall and long abandoned even before the Green Flu outbreak had swept through here. The windows were heavily boarded-up, the brick walls worn, faded, covered in graffiti; clearly no one had been inside it in a while. On the side of the building was a rusted old fire escape, the bottom ladder left down and accessible, probably by vandals, leading up to a broken window on the top story. _Perfect_.

A quick glance both ways and he was already darting into that alleyway, bounding up the fire escape two steps at a time. The old metal creaked and shuddered beneath his weight, but it held, as it always did. He had only to try and land his footsteps as quietly as possible – he didn't want the noise to attract the attention of any Infected that could be nearby. He stopped at the window, cautiously squinting into the darkness inside, just in case one or two had decided to hole up in it for the night (he'd stopped bringing a flashlight with him a long time ago, useful as they were… once he'd learned that a lot of Infected didn't take kindly to being disturbed by bright lights shining into their eyes).

It was quiet and deserted, as usual. Climbing through it, he passed through the bare room beyond and into the hallway, and from there taking the nearby staircase up to an open door, leading out onto the roof. This place was a favored "perch" of his. He came here from time to time, just to sit and void his brain for a while, away from all the madness and bloodshed in the streets below. Up where the stench of illness and decay wasn't quite as strong, and he could _breathe_. He closed the door behind him and wandered over to the ledge, sitting down beside it, leaning against the cool concrete. From here, he could see for quite a distance – a couple of times he'd even been able to snipe some potentially dangerous Special Infected, totally unseen. And how could he forget the time he'd had to run up here to hide from a passing Tank…

Thomas couldn't hold back a brief smirk at the memory, removing his rifle from his shoulder and holding it in his lap. After taking a few moments to reload it from his belt, he held it up and looked through the scope as one might use a pair of binoculars. There wasn't much to see today, aside from a meandering group of Common Infected a ways down this back street, and a few vultures squabbling over a well-decomposed corpse across it directly below. Nothing worth wasting his ammo on, anyway.

He sighed, lowering the rifle and setting it back down in his lap. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out another cigarette, popping it into his mouth and lighting it up with a single swift motion.

_Christ, I really need to re-break this habit…_ he thought to himself, pinching it between his fingers to exhale a steady stream of smoke into the evening air. _Katheryn won't like it when she sees me smoking…_

He chuckled quietly to himself, able to picture perfectly in his mind's eye her pouting face and crossed arms, chastising him for doing something so bad for his health. Somehow, it warmed him inside. Something in the thought brought him comfort, reassurance, however fleeting. He ran a finger along the caution tape tightly bound around the barrel of his rifle, his determination rekindled anew. Tomorrow he'd spend another day exploring some part of the city he hadn't pored over yet. He'd move twice as fast, find a working car if he had to (though he detested the thought, Infected could hear cars coming a mile away), just to cover that much more ground.

The faster he did so, the sooner he could leave this lost, forsaken shell of a place. The sooner he'd be out on the road, one hell of a straggler on the winding path back to civilization. And, most importantly, back to his beloved baby girl.

He rested the back of his head against the ledge, closing his weary eyes, the dull orange glow of his cigarette the only source of light and warmth for miles around as the night took over again.

oOo

_I apologize a million times over for the delay in finishing this. I don't have much of a good excuse for it, except that I'm not particularly satisfied with this chapter and had to motivate myself to get it done, on top of real-life stuff like college and work and whatnot running me down. It'll all pick back up in chapter three, which HOPEFULLY will be up faster than this one was, gah. Until next time!_


End file.
